


alternate usage

by Alias (anafabula)



Series: Porn Without Plot With Continuity (Of Porn) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Autistic Jonathan Sims, Autistic Peter Lukas, Banned Together Bingo 2020, Breeding Kink, Cis Peter Lukas, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pregnancy, He's handling this well (he is not handling this well), Hypothetical Exhibitionism, I can't write allistic people, Implied/Background Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Jon was almost definitely a virgin! So that's great, Jon’s low vision because I said so, Knotting, Lap Sex, M/M, Marking, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Really quite a lot of come, Sex is basically really high-stakes stimming with someone else's body right, Size Kink, Slut-shaming the Beholding, Some discussion of weight btw, Squirting, Stomach Deformation, These tags are related, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, Will my OTP stop bleeding into everything I write someday?, and luckily for you I don't have to, because there are none whatsoever appearing in this fic, signs point to no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24160507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anafabula/pseuds/Alias
Summary: He can’t turn around, or look away, he can’t— he can’t stop reading, Jon realizes, distantly. He stumbles slightly between words and that’s it, that’s the most Jon can pull himself away from the urgency of the memories before him, even as he feels unfamiliar hands hoist him out of the chair and manhandle him over his own desk.Kinkmeme prompt: Around S3 or S4 canon where Jon is coming into his own more as an Archivist and struggles to stop reading statements. In the middle of one of the more binding ones, he doesn’t realize he’s gone into heat until it starts. An alpha comes in while he’s reading and he can’t stop reading to prevent them from mounting him. He finishes mid-way, but by then it’s too late.
Relationships: Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Porn Without Plot With Continuity (Of Porn) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137407
Comments: 53
Kudos: 254
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Rusty Kink





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's the prompt.](https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=414052#cmt414052) (I did kind of fail on the " _the heat combined with his praise kink doesn’t stop him from being honest about how good it feels_ " front specifically. I plead 'local Archivist got dicked down hard enough that his "not going nonverbal" machine broke.') And speaking of good shit on the kinkmeme, I owe a bunch of motivation to rereading [this fic by Jenavira](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21563080) also tbh.
> 
> Relevant words for anatomy of the transmasc persuasion (Jon's both afab and an omega, as separate things, because I like my a/b/o as complicated as humanly possible): cunt, folds, slit; cock; chest; womb, cervix (like, once).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can explain why the obtuse-historical-commentary fuck this is what I wrote for the prompt that's on file as "`Interracial Relationships`" but it's, uh, the kind of thing I don't want to bring to anyone's doorstep unprompted (irony, that). Instead! Porn.
> 
> Additional **content warning** : Li'l bit of auto-cannibalism in the statement early on (it's in the middle of the second paragraph). Also the amount of emotional manipulation one would expect from Peter being here throughout.

It was perfectly reasonable, Jon thinks — later, when he can think at all — that he didn’t realize what was happening. He had absolutely no reason to. He _didn’t_. 

The curious combination of warm, flushed satiety and lingering dissatisfaction is close enough to familiar to be ignored as a consequence of reading: so much better than nothing, and never enough any more. That’s more than enough to leave him warm and relaxed, tongue darting out to lick his lips between sentences as lush, rich terror settles inside him, not unlike the way the raw, thick flesh of her own leg slid all too easily down the witness’s open throat. He shifts more than he’d usually expect as he reads, but that restlessness is well enough explained by his now ever-present awareness of how much better it would be to have taken this from someone breathing. 

And he doesn’t hear the door open — over his own voice and the steady whirring of the tape, or at all — but that hardly could have been helped. 

So Jon’s unaware of anything relevant up until his chair’s pulled backward as easily as if he weren’t in it; and _now_ he can hear movement, can hear heavy footfalls the air makes muted but doesn’t quite swallow.

He can’t turn around, or look away, he can’t— he can’t stop reading, Jon realizes, distantly, he’s barely got it in him to notice enough to tense with fear for himself. He stumbles slightly between words and that’s it, that’s the most Jon can pull himself away from the urgency of the memories before him, even as he feels unfamiliar hands hoist him out of the chair and manhandle him over his own desk; his body’s indifferent to it, pliant, even, the most impact it makes on the statement is the way landing on his elbows and stomach means it takes a second to catch his breath. His pulse speeds up with fear and more than a tinge of despair of his own but his voice refuses to follow suit, as those hands make short work of his trousers and pants, the air cold and shocking on his bare, vulnerable, _dripping_ cunt. 

Because he’s in heat. He’s in _heat_ and he managed to ignore it, managed to mistake it for the sensation of feeding — and he hates himself, _hates_ himself for that, for what it says about him — and now someone’s got him bent over and open and defenseless and—

Jon makes the tiniest hitched _Ah_ sound as he feels something hot and solid (precious few options for what, really) dragging easily against his folds, as those hands fix on the tops of his thighs to position him roughly, tilting his hips up, spreading him further. As the broad head of the man’s cock slides against him, once, twice, and then he finds the right angle to sink inside. 

That’s it. That’s the extent of what agency Jon gets in terms of overriding the statement that’s building rapidly to its own kind of climax, his voice shaking slightly with the motion as the man behind him fucks into him. 

(And in, and _in_ , and Jon’s soaking such that the thrusts jarring him bodily feel all but frictionless, but if he couldn’t taste it in the air that his assailant is an alpha this would remove any doubt. He feels almost unthinkably massive— but Jon takes it, and _takes_ it, and can’t rightly tell if it’s the story or the cock splitting him open that makes him respond to the full, stretched feeling by only wanting more.)

No sooner has the statement ended than the man’s large hands drag him up and back; Jon lands heavily in his lap, still speared on his cock— more so, even, the breath knocked out of him as the full length’s thrust into him by his own bodyweight. Any hope of coherent speech deserts him; he makes noise, though, finally, a loud whining moan, and the man rolls his hips and laughs. 

Jon pants for a moment, air scraping roughly down his throat, his whole body shaking around the prick inside him. “Lukas,” he manages, breathless but full of venom. 

There’s no one else in the building Jon would have considered capable of this kind of violation. (At least, he _hopes_ there isn’t.) That would do it even if this weren’t horrible enough to Know. And all else aside, he recognizes that laugh.

“You know, Archivist,” Lukas says, cheerfully, and the grip keeping Jon fixed on his cock is like iron, “we may have just met, but I think we’re on first-name terms here, don’t you? Call me Peter.”

Before Jon can say anything about that (and the order feels warm and oily inside him, not worth the effort to shake), one of Peter’s hands is between his thighs, nudging his legs apart further. His fingers are dry and rough but Jon’s beyond wet enough to make up the difference as Peter strokes him, fast and hard and more than overwhelming enough to keep him speechless. 

He tips into orgasm just about immediately, spine arching, hips rocking forward without any conscious input on his part. Peter’s cock is almost too large for Jon’s body to clench around already — oh, but he _manages_ — and it should hurt that he doesn’t let up, keeps rubbing at him with that same demanding rhythm, but instead Jon’s orgasm stretches out longer in response, his vision going white. Jon can’t make noise at all any more, he can’t _breathe_ and there’s an unfamiliar hot pressured feeling building inside him alongside it but he still doesn’t stop and _doesn’t stop_ until Jon’s body seizes up with an unfamiliar gushing sensation— and then the tension vanishes all at once, leaving him boneless and limp and soaked in his own slick. 

“Desperate little slut, aren’t you?” Peter says, and laughs again when Jon frantically shakes his head. “Of course you are, look at that, you’re a mess.” He sounds— fond, almost. Amused. (A touch breathless.) “It’s irresponsible of Elias to let you go around like this for so long, honestly.”

 _What,_ Jon means to snap. “Nh,” he manages weakly. 

“Or is this all a novelty to you?” he goes on, indifferent to Jon’s attempt at interruption. He’s stopped rubbing at Jon but hasn’t moved his hand, just idly curling his fingers over Jon’s cock, sparks of keen arousal jolting through him whenever they touch. “A new gift from your master? It’s not at all out of character, I suppose. You lot will take it from— well, anyone. Not too far a stretch of the imagination to make it a bit more literal.”

“What are you talking about,” Jon says, voice wrecked and tremulous. 

Peter licks the side of Jon’s neck, drags his teeth lightly against that dangerous stretch of skin, and Jon’s heart skips a beat even as he feels his cock jump against Peter’s hand. That seems to grab his interest for a moment, as he sucks a bruise into Jon’s skin and nudges his cock free of its hood instead of answering, making Jon’s eyes roll back and his hips jerk toward him. He’s so sensitive it almost stings, and when he pulls against Peter’s cock as he moves Jon can feel where it’s swelled a bit wider at the base already, pleasure spiking through him as that rubs where his body’s at its most demanding even as his mind clouds with fear. “That _scent_ , for one thing,” Peter says, jerking him cruelly for emphasis. “Your body’s screaming _someone fuck me_ , just, indiscriminately. It’s obscene.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t want to.” He tries for stern resentment, ends up with a whimper. “I don’t— I don’t want— I don’t want this. I don’t want this.”

“Sure you don’t. Hey, you’re not going to need these right now, really,” Peter says, ignoring the noise of distress as he pulls Jon’s glasses off almost thoughtfully — before he belies the impression by throwing them onto Jon’s desk. 

(Jon holds his breath for a second, listening for the sound of them falling off the edge, and manages to spare a moment of relief when they skitter to a stop against— paperwork, probably. It’s a mundane enough spike of fear to deal with, but Jon’s natural vision, the human kind, has not gone much beyond a handspan from his face in a very long time.) 

“There we go.” Peter brings his free hand up and starts roughly unbuttoning Jon’s shirt with a similar level of carelessness, ignoring what protests Jon manages to get out of his mouth save for how Peter’s taking them as a prompt to stroke Jon hard and fast until he’s gone nonverbal and his protests are fully indistinguishable from moans again. 

Jon’s chin drops to his heaving chest, and it takes a moment for the only roughly human-colored blurs to resolve into something useful. His own lap is close enough for his better eye and his misery together to get him some level of detail, though it fades in and out when he blinks. Peter’s hands are as large as they’d felt, unsurprisingly, fingers thick and slightly crooked, gleaming copiously with Jon’s slick in a way that turns his stomach. Carlita Sloane was evidently prone to understatement, because Peter’s skin is the kind of light Jon once naively could have called _corpselike_ ; he knows better now, of course, and it adds to the contrast between them that Peter _is_ obviously alive, compared to the bloodless ashen tone Jon has never managed to shake. Though his own cock’s flushed and red where it’s visible between Peter’s fingers, hard and straining and— he pulls his gaze away. 

“Better!” Peter says brightly, feeling Jon up in what seems to be a completely purposeless way now that more of him’s bared (his skin’s so hot but the air is so cold and the rough warmth of Peter’s hand feels like the worst kind of mercy), probing at his missing rib and dragging his palm flat against Jon’s binder. He drops his hand to Jon’s thigh and squeezes at the meat of it and Jon shivers. His other hand has gone back to stroking Jon in tight, regular circles, winding another orgasm up between Jon’s hipbones with what feels like utter inevitability. “Much more honest a look if one of your little assistants — or mine! — were to blunder in, don’t you think?”

Oh, _god_ , Jon hadn’t thought as far as getting caught like this, about the prospect of, of Daisy’s surprise or Melanie’s snarling betrayal or Basira’s inevitable already-simmering _disappointment_ , it makes him tense miserably (makes his cunt clutch that much more tightly at the length of Peter’s dick inside him) even before the rest of the sentence percolates and he… realizes he doesn’t _know_ what Martin’s reaction would be, not really, not after this long. He gets just as far as his own coiled dread at even the possibility and the memory of Martin’s face when he’s shocked and shifting toward anger before the uncertainty’s knocked clean out of his mind by more urgent priorities of sensation. 

Peter snaps his hips up into Jon with a cruel kind of interest just as he’s seizing up, eyes rolling back and head falling hard against Peter’s shoulder, and Jon can hear the filthy wet noise of it even over his own incoherent cries. 

He feels Peter groan in a way that vibrates through his own chest as Jon shivers through the even more unexpected aftershocks; when his hips roll in tiny reflexive motions it keeps rubbing the beginning of a knot against Jon’s insides and the way just that draws out his orgasm is _obscene_. Even with his whole abdomen shaking and sore he can’t make himself hold still, and he squeezes his eyes shut against hot prickling tears, breath coming in shallow gasps. 

“Should’ve— expected that, really,” Peter says, slightly unsteady but more than self-possessed enough to be wry, “don’t know why I didn’t. Of course you'd love an audience. Not enough to know that everyone'll be able to tell what's _happened_ , you want all eyes on you while I get you pregnant too, is that how it is?”

Jon jolts forward, sore and uncoordinated but recoiling as far as he can in stark, electric panic, feeling like his throat's about to close. "What? No, no, I--" It isn't particularly far, other than leaning away at the shoulder he might as well be fucking himself harder on Peter on purpose for effectively the same result, but—

And it's unfair and it's stupid, really, that just having stuck his dick in him at the right time means that Peter can cut off Jon's train of thought by speaking even when it's visceral panic. "Oh, can you brace yourself on the desk a bit?" 

To which the answer is more that Jon can't not; even if he'd personally argue semantics, actually, and no matter how much he’s trembling, his body knows what an order is. 

"Lovely," Peter says, approving, and Jon feels sick at how the praise shivers through him, how easily the conversation (such as it is) moves on. "Should make this much easier."

Jon considers asking what, exactly, that's supposed to mean, but Peter’s already moving to manhandle him, using the shift in Jon’s weight for leverage to lift Jon off of him just a bit. 

He can barely actually move like this any more than he could with Jon all the way in his lap but he doesn't have to; the knot tying them together’s swelled long past the point of pulling out, a panicky sharp stretch as he pulls back at all at the beginning of each short thrust. Peter’s fucking up into him is more a question only of deep and then deeper, shaking through Jon’s whole body as he chases enough friction to get himself off. 

“Wait,” Jon gasps, as he feels Peter mouthing at his neck, whatever sounds he’d be making muffled against what will probably be short-lived livid bruising. “Wait, no, I,” and he’s not sure what he’s even asking for—the word ‘no’, in particular, Jon has noticed the experimental way before, is terribly easy to moan—other than for _something_ to be manageable, some sensation or threat to be less, to do anything but increase further, as his muscles flutter arrhythmically around Peter’s dick, almost too stretched just above the base to clench down. 

Peter notices in the worst way available, of course. (And here Jon had thought he might at very least be past fucking talking.) “Oh, that’s, that’s nice,” Peter says, the words exhaled unsteadily between Jon’s shoulderblades as Peter’s thrusts get shorter and more abrupt. “I swear, I forget just how insatiable you lot— ah— you about to come for me again, then?”

Jon wants to snarl at him for the phrasing, for one thing, that level of entitlement on top of everything else. But, then again, he also wants to catch his breath, and look how that’s working out for him. “Can’t,” he finds himself whining instead, “I, I don’t, I can’t—” 

“Oh, all right, fine. This time. You may not be able to come on my knot alone _yet,_ but I’m sure we can get you there.” Peter’s hand finds its way between his legs again, with the other shifted to the top of Jon’s thigh to hold him down, palm running broad circles over his cock; he’s pressing too hard and too carelessly and it doesn’t matter in the slightest. That would-be pain is no more relevant than the push and drag of his cock against muscle that ought to be sore; what matters is the pressure, inside and out, every sensation compiling as sparks of lancing pleasure as Peter shoves Jon down against him, _hard_ , like there’s any deeper for him to come inside. 

Then his mouth’s on the back of Jon’s neck, teeth breaking the skin before Jon can conceptualize pulling away, and everything whites out for a moment. If he panics at this managing to still get worse, the twin worst-case scenarios of an alpha’s knot reshaping his cunt around it and the bite at the same time rewiring Jon’s nervous system in lines of shivering electrical fire — if Jon’s panicking, and he probably is, it’s the kind of fear he still gets off on, and the brutally overwhelming single stretched-out moment of it is barely recognizable as something that could be called an orgasm at all. There’s probably noise, and other sensations; but there’s probably quite a lot of things Jon doesn’t notice beyond hot wet fullness and the claim staked over his spine. 

He has no idea how long it actually lasts, only drifting into awareness of cause and effect again as Peter laughs breathlessly when he (finally) lets go of Jon’s neck. “You know, I did _not_ actually intend to do that,” he says, lips brushing against the already-scarring torn flesh. It goes straight to Jon’s cock when he fixes his mouth against the skin and licks, suckles gently— it still feels as sensitive as his cock, outright, and Jon keens, body jerking mindlessly, the knowledge of what _exactly_ that means has happened to him slowly sinking in. 

“I have my hands full enough already, really. I don't need… that was all you,” Peter goes on. Gives the closed wound another lick, like he’s just curious about it, about the texture and the way it makes Jon shudder again both. “So honestly in the scheme of things you just got lucky?”

“ _Lucky?_ ” Jon echoes, furious and weak.

“Sure,” Peter says. “That it’s just me who got a hold of you. Anything could have, can you imagine?” He presses his lips under Jon’s ear, then grins; Jon feels it in his beard, the flats of his teeth. “And everyone else would _want_ to. You’re lucky to have me and so’s Elias. At least we’re allies.” He kisses Jon’s neck, mocking in its sincerity. “And he can’t get too upset with me, because I’m perfectly willing to share.”

Jon considers asking what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, and then stops considering it immediately, because Peter brings his spare hand up off Jon’s hip to rub his thumb across the ragged scar on the nape of his neck and Jon’s preoccupied with slumping forward, as far as he can while pinned on Peter’s cock, and whining. He can’t think, he can barely breathe, his pulse pounds under the scar and in his cock and in his _womb_ and he wants— no, he just needs to know what Peter wants from him—

Peter’s hand’s on his sternum, pressing Jon back against his chest, and Jon can think again. “Shh,” Peter says. “Hush. I’ve got you.” He trails his hand down to press under Jon’s navel, shifting Jon slightly around his cock, making him whimper again. “See?”

It shouldn’t be reassuring. He says nothing. 

“Well,” Peter says. “You’ll get used to it.” He picks up Jon’s hand and places it over the bulge of his cock instead, and Jon frowns but feels out the contour of it, the sick curiosity grounding him. Peter lets him. 

Jon has seen terribly little of the man who now effectively owns him — owns his body, at any rate, on a level beyond that it’s been quite some time since Jon was up for grabs at all — and that’s an ironic little torture in itself, Jon thinks, choking back a small whine. His hand keeps moving over his abdomen, compulsively tracing the shape of Peter’s cock inside him as if that could compensate. His hips rock mindlessly, tiny motions just to feel the knot pull him back in place, the motion a lost cause not worth stopping. 

Peter sighs at that, kisses the back of Jon’s neck; the acute spike of arousal that lances through him at that is inevitable, too. He snakes one hand up into Jon’s shirt until he finds the zip at the top of his binder; pulls it open, carelessly, and Jon still somehow has it in him to gasp at the simultaneous physical relief and additional violation. Peter’s hand is rough on his chest, at first palming at him with a detached kind of proprietary curiosity that still jerks a gasp out of him. 

With his chest bared Jon’s nipples feel swollen, bruised, and when Peter rolls one between his fingers Jon almost comes again from that alone.

“ _Very_ good,” Peter murmurs, seeming to take the way Jon’s muscles flutter around his cock with the added stimulation as a license to keep going, toying with him, grinding his hips into Jon almost absentmindedly as he pulls and pinches at his flesh. “Good boy. Tell you what,” he goes on, the hand that’s been cupping Jon’s pubic mound coming up to take his wrist and guide Jon’s fingers down in his place there, too, “how about you make yourself come on my knot this time? Since you’re so determined to milk me dry already.”

“No,” Jon moans, fingers staying between the spread lips of his cunt nevertheless, his cock sliding and bumping against them. Peter switches to the other side of his chest with a sound of mild interest and Jon sobs. “No, I, I don’t…”

“Yes,” Peter says, utterly unnecessarily. He lets go of Jon’s wrist, apparently satisfied with his level of compliance, and brings his still-wet fingers up to rest on Jon’s spit-slick bottom lip. “Shh,” he adds, and pushes three of them inside.

Jon rolls his hips shallowly against his own hand, cock sliding between two fingers, humiliating himself in equal measure with the fact that he’s licking and sucking his own slick off Peter’s fingers and with the wet and desperately aroused noises he makes while doing so. The base instinctual part of him, like a cousin in mindlessness to his constant yearning for another victim, thrills at the prospect of getting _his_ alpha to fill him again before he has to pull out, even for a moment. It makes him sick. It makes his ears burn and his head spin and his eyes roll back. 

Peter’s fingers are thick and heavy on his tongue, evocatively so, and Jon swallows as best he can manage but still drools around them as Peter thrusts slowly in and out. “Really, though, there’s no need to hurry,” he says, half affection and half rebuke. “You’re going to be in heat for at least a couple days at this rate. I can promise I’ll have you good and knocked up by the time we’re done here, you don’t have to rush it.”

Jon seizes up at that, at the second mention of the concept like he’d— like he’d thought Peter didn’t mean it the first time, fingers suddenly too tight around his cock, chest heaving, the orgasm taking him by surprise. No, he thinks, eyes watering, and _please._

Peter hisses as Jon’s body tries and fails to tighten on his knot, keeps playing with Jon’s chest as Jon shudders through it. “Good boy,” he says, again, “ _good_ boy, that’s right, just like that.” 

Jon loosens his grip on his own cock, or rather goes limp less than voluntarily, his other hand dropping to rest on his thigh; but he tries to swallow around the fingers still in his mouth — his face feels wet, feels _filthy_ — keeps circling his hips obediently. Doesn’t have it in him to stop. Isn’t sure, in the back of his mind, if he would; god, it shouldn’t still light his body up with pleasure like this, it should get old and it just _doesn’t_ , the same sensations blowing his mind again and again. It feels like (something he’s well enough familiar with) there’s less of him left after, every time.

“You know, the lovely thing about getting something like you pregnant,” Peter says, taking enough pity on Jon to pull one finger out of his mouth so he can swallow more easily around his own incoherent sounds of distress as Peter presses down on his tongue, “is you may not have a proper _heat_ for a year but you’ll be practically this desperate for me in particular the whole time.” He lets go of Jon’s abused nipple and brings that hand back down to his abdomen, feeling out the swell of Jon’s body around his cock for himself, canting his hips up into it a little so his knot hitches up inside him. “Instinct, I expect. You’re going to _beg_. Your body wants to know I’m not leaving you.” He sighs. “Lucky for you, I’m going to have to be around more often than not after all, I’m afraid— Oh! Say, how long do you think you’ll manage to fit under my — Elias’s — desk?”

Jon makes a confused, muffled noise. The question’s presumably rhetorical, though, given Peter’s kept fingerfucking his mouth through it, an obscene spit-slick slide between his stretched lips and over his tongue.

“Long enough to teach you how to take a knot in your mouth—” _how is that even supposed to be fucking possible_ “—I think; you seem like you’ll be a natural? But you are _awfully_ skinny,” Peter says by way of answer, rubbing the head of his cock where it can be felt through Jon’s skin again for emphasis. “Going to be positively _distended_ by the time I’m done with you here alone. So when you’re— you know— when you’re with child and— you seem like you’re going to try to hide it?”

Of course he’s going to fucking hide it—

“So how long do you expect you’ll manage that?” Peter goes on contemplatively. “While you’re flinching every time someone looks at you, even though they probably can’t tell yet? Until they can, of course. Anyone who still thinks they can trust you— they’re going to feel _so_ betrayed all over again, aren’t they? Wondering what exactly you let fuck you that you liked so much, given what else you like. What you’d whore yourself out for. What you let _breed_ you, because obviously you wanted it bad if you’re keeping it, what you spread your legs for and let use you until you’re all fat and full and _owned_ like that— Staring at you and actually thinking of you as an omega, maybe for the first time, no matter how progressive and enlightened they think they are, they’ll all know what you’re _for_.” Peter makes a ragged sound that isn’t quite a moan; it takes him a moment to catch his breath. “Exhibitionist slut like you, you’re going to love it, aren’t you?” And he pulls his fingers out of Jon’s mouth. 

Jon works his sore jaw, shoulders shaking as he rocks harder between his hand and Peter’s knot. (He’s close again, Jon thinks, hot and throbbing inside him. Getting off on what he’s saying. Jon wishes he wasn’t. He wishes.) He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, utterly soundless. Then he lets his eyes shut and rubs himself in earnest, gasping, clenches rhythmically around Peter with that familiar feeling that’s half yawning emptiness and half relief.

“Thought so,” Peter says, breathless, and then he’s spilling inside him, cock pulsing, come thick and fever-hot and so much more than Jon should be able to take. Still less than his body wants. _Still._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this sufficiently `Vulgar` I'm pretty sure this is sufficiently `Vulgar` but the prompt _did_ say the word three times and that's quite `Vulgar`

Jon manages to let his mind drift for a little while, head tipped back against Peter’s shoulder, not quite able to not be grateful for it. Peter strokes the insides of Jon’s thighs, idly maps Jon out by touch from his cock to where he’s stretched around the slick base of Peter’s dick, presses curiously up against Jon’s folds to feel the resistance that is his own knot inside him. Jon trembles, a bit, makes little fucked-out noises of protest against Peter’s neck, which Peter seems to take as a reason to keep doing it a bit longer. 

“Should get you on your knees once you can move a bit before we go again,” he says, not quite out of nowhere. He sounds— thoughtful. “You’ll like it,” he adds, and nips Jon’s earlobe. 

Jon breathes out raggedly, searching for words. “A… Again?” He wants to say, _no, no, god_ , please _no_ ; he already feels wrung-out and exhausted and used. But he can’t get the words out his mouth, past the way the prospect of being fucked again shivers through him, reminds him he’s still warm and loose and needy no matter what he actually wants. What he thinks he wants. 

“‘Course,” Peter says. His beard doesn’t quite tickle and doesn’t quite itch, an in-between sensation Jon thinks he might be able to want to pull away from later instead of only lacking the energy to push up toward his mouth. He moves his hand down from Jon’s slit, rubs absentminded little circles into his inner thigh, uncomfortably gentle and a bit sticky. “Fair warning, you’re not going to be able to keep all my come in you when I’ve pulled out, so don’t get too upset about it, all right? You’ll be fine, I’ll fill you right up again. Deeper, maybe, if you’re lucky.”

That’s enough to force Jon to picture it, to picture himself face-down on his knees, back arched reflexively — he’s never had an interest in porn, rather the opposite, but if there’s a way to make it to adulthood as an omega without being forced into awareness of those sorts of _archetypes_ Jon failed to find it in time for that to matter — imagines come dripping down his thighs from his open cunt even as he tries to keep it in, body left gaping and desperate until Peter sees fit to fuck into him again. He makes a punched-out, vulnerable noise at the thought; he thinks Peter might be smiling at it.

“If I’d known this was how I’d be spending my day I would’ve planned a bit,” he sighs. "It's just— not exactly my bailiwick, you know? So it's a pain, really, the panic response and all that. This—” at which point he sort of… taps a bit below Jon’s navel, like he’d meant to gesture indicatively but wasn’t paying enough attention to care where his body actually stopped “—makes you too stupid to care about anything but whether I’m fucking you right this instant, and that’s just hell on logistics, I think that’d be obvious?”

It takes a minute for Jon to realize what he’s getting at, and Peter sighs indifferently before going on anyway. “You’ll know soon enough, I suppose. Up you get, come on. The faster you handle this the less time you’ll have to get upset.”

Jon lets himself be manhandled because he can’t not, and because he doesn’t think — right up until the moment Peter pulls out, or rather more pulls Jon up off his dick — he doesn’t think it’ll be all that bad. An improvement, if anything, really. 

Then his mind goes blank.

“Yes, I know.” Peter’s voice isn’t compiling to words as clearly as Jon would— not necessarily prefer, he’s hardly a fan of the things Peter’s said in their interactions to date either, but the dull animal incomprehension is— additionally unpleasant, under the grinding white noise of panic that is Jon’s actual reaction to feeling his cunt open and gaping and _wrong_ the way it’s never been in his life, the attendant secondary horror of knowing not having a cock stuffed in him should feel fucking normal and instead— “I know, I know. Hush. Hands and knees, come on.”

Jon manages the knees part, naturally enough; less so the hands, more propping himself up on his arms. He wonders if that’s just him trying to avoid opportunities for trembling further. He can’t… tell, exactly; his body does things largely without him. 

Peter wastes no time following him down and getting on his knees behind him anyway, and Jon thinks they’re going to be done with this even worse interlude, surely, but then he doesn’t _move_. Doesn’t get any closer or put his cock back in the hole that’s been well and established as fitting it; doesn’t even stick anything else in either. Instead, Peter… slips the tips of two fingers just barely inside him — what is he doing — and parts them, pulling Jon’s cunt open in a way that burns not with any challenge whatsoever left in the stretch but with sheer humiliation. 

Worse, somehow, is that he feels — no no no no no — even with the obscene arch of his back Jon thinks he can feel something warm and wet dripping out of him. Jon outright _screams_ before he can stop himself, muffled somewhat as he wraps his arms tighter around his head, mind clouding over with panic without at any point stopping to face up what he’s panicked about, whole body frozen with it. “Don’t— d-d-don’t you fucking— What are you _playing_ at,” he demands, tries to be angry and manages little more than a sob. 

“Sorry,” Peter says, performatively casual about it; “I was just looking. Did you want something?”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing but I need you to stop,” Jon grits out. All one sentence even, he thinks, sparing some of that dizzy hatred for himself, isn’t that nice. 

“And instead…?”

“G-Get— Christ, just get your cock back inside me, what do you fucking think?”

Peter clicks his tongue consideringly. “That’s an awfully demanding turnaround, Archivist. How would you be sure I can already get it up again? Even for your charming self, I’m sure.”

A little spark of irrational panic still hits him at the idea Peter might not just be fucking around pointlessly, but Jon says, “Because I— I know _how_ unmedicated heats work. I–it’s— I don’t need experience to know you’re lying.”

“Can’t be lying, not really. Not just by stating a hypothetical,” Peter says brightly, “but point taken, I suppose. So! If you’re actually all that informed about your body— could’ve fooled me, if I’m honest…”

Jon tries to snarl at him to get to the point. It comes out more whining. He _does_ know most of this, damn it. He just didn’t know the option itself was on the table. 

Peter’s dry hand lands on the back of his neck — that’s unambiguously a whine — and trails heavily, considering, across his shoulder, baring skin on the way. "Mm. What was I saying? Oh, right! If you're actually so informed and responsible, I'd think you'd be conscious of the risks! I suppose I could try to pull out but as lovely as you'd look painted over in come it's not exactly _realistic_ \--"

Jon thinks, _why is he being this stupid_ — like he hasn’t already knotted Jon once, like he didn’t fucking bite him and then blame Jon for it, like there’s any bloody question left in the matter — and then he realizes that's why. That Peter thinks this is funny. 

It maybe is, a bit, though that just makes him hate the whole affair an impossible bit more.

"I am _asking_ you to knot me," he says, almost all one word, to the floor.

"Sorry?" Peter asks, the tone making Jon immediately decide that, even though it'd be somewhat fair if he hadn't heard what Jon said first, if Peter claimed that he'd be lying. "There's risk and then there's all but guaranteeing I'd knock you up, I mean…"

"That is the _point_ , generally," Jon agrees, almost through gritted teeth. Not quite--he can't seem to hold that level of tension, just enough to try for the umpteenth time to clench down as if that would--would help the situation as regards his cunt at all and have that just utterly backfire.

"It's just not really what I'd expect of you to want, even more than all this!" Peter says, the irony as thick and prone to grating on Jon's nerves as his dick but without any of the marginal redeeming features. "I think you should tell me _exactly_ what it is you want from me, just to make sure I'm understanding right. Doesn’t that seem fair?"

No, obviously. (As fair as anything thus far, Jon considers; would say it if he could spare words for anything unnecessary.) It's not fair. It's wanton and unnecessary cruelty and it's burning precious seconds of relatively clearer thought as everything but the instinctual sense of threat slips away from him and it's still a fucking stupid fake-conversation for Peter to have started.

But he needs— he _needs_ , in a way that puts the fugue state of his worst starvation to shame. So presumably they’re both well aware of what his answer’s going to be. 

“Please.” Jon’s voice cracks on it; on the fact that, among a very, very strictly limited set of options, he is technically telling the truth. “I need— I— I want you t-t-to--" God, he can't, he _can't_ but he has to-- "I want you to knot my cunt and I want you to come inside me because I want you to get me pregnant _is that fucking clear enough._ " He'd be more pleased with the successful spite in full sentences if it were carried on something other than a sob. His ears are ringing with instinctual panic and it makes him snappish but it makes him helpless in every way that actually matters. 

“Really,” Peter says. Despite the way Jon's reeling, his voice comes through perfectly clear. He’s still keeping up the act enough to sound surprised, but there’s hairline cracks in the false affect now; more relevantly, there’s the broad head of his cock ghosting against Jon, not close enough for the limited motion of Jon rocking his hips back on reflex to force it inside but _there_ , probably dragging lightly through Peter’s own come no less. 

“Yes,” Jon says. Hates how sincere it sounds, on the relative scale of things, even with how it’s dragged out of him. “Yes. Please. Just— that.” He wonders, briefly, how much more Peter intends to make him fucking debase himself. He cuts himself off with the knowledge of how condemned Jon is to play along if he does. 

"Oh, really, Archivist, it's my pleasure. Almost an honor, even," Peter says with a kind of solicitousness that makes Jon's hands curl into fists against the floor with irritation more than violence, not least because he’d begun to work himself up to expecting worse, "I'm very glad you asked."

The panic-frozen tension that he _had_ managed all goes out of Jon as soon as Peter fucks into him, all puppet-with-strings-cut, relaxing where he is with his face against the floor and everything to the point where it feels like he’s only held up by the hard cock coring into him exactly how he doesn’t want to want like this, the side of his face blissfully hitting the floor. It doesn’t even register as a form of discomfort, let alone injury, not compared to the parts of him that matter being hot and full again. Jon relaxes into the hands on his hips and the arch of his spine and, for a long moment, his mind goes quiet. 

"So," Peter says, for all the world like they're continuing a conversation Jon should have any way to understand, "what do you think it's going to be, anyway?"

Jon’s first attempt at a reply is stolen as a whine, the second as a gasp. He has, just barely, the presence of mind to resent both, as well as to scrabble some level of support back under his cheek, if only in the form of his own forearm. “Wh-what?”

“You— you know,” Peter says, as casual as could be save the underlying strain of exertion. The roll of his hips ebbs and slows until he’s not doing much more than an insistent nudge, just enough motion to make Jon — to make them both, Jon presumes — unceasingly aware there is in fact a great deal of space inside him and a great deal of cock filling it. It’s a cheap trick, but it works well enough, leaves Jon clenching around him impatiently (insofar as he can) with a dull thrum of physically contented arousal from how he’s bottomed out, how Jon’s whole cunt feels stretched into that new and awfully correct fullness, waiting only for the knot to cap it off. “This,” Peter says, hand trailing from Jon’s hip to possessively round his belly. “Not that there’s anything here _yet_ , but, well. That’s what you’ve got me to fix! I’d— I’d expect _something_ interesting, surely, and you're the one who's supposed to be curious in the first place. The Eye’s _favorite_ worldly investment repurposed as a sheath for my cock and an incubator for my god— doesn’t it make you wonder what you’re going to create?”

Peter starts fucking him again, properly, finding a rhythm that turns harsh and then harsher. Pleased with himself, Jon assumes, rocking his own hips back to meet each thrust as his back arches and his own cock and cunt throb insistently and seemingly in rhythm. Thinking about it, because of course he is. The thoughts starting slowly and then picking up speed until his mind's racing--if there's no way something could come from him and be human, what would the lesser evil even look like? Is a lesser evil possible when it comes to him literally being responsible for bringing _more--_

“But that's all you'll ever get to do, because the most you’ll ever get to know— _fuck_ —about what exactly you inflicted on the world will be when— you start hearing about it from their victims,” Peter finishes, absolutely vicious.

He finally ( _finally_ ) stops talking, shuddering against Jon, leaning over him like a fall risk as his hips try to jerk and can’t. His knot’s too thick inside Jon for even that little of movement, once more, cock pulsing as he comes inside him and Jon hopes none of the sounds he himself appears to be making are words. His head’s swimming too much to be sure. 

Sex is so profoundly repetitive, Jon thinks, probably not for the first time and thus proving his own point, body shaking as if he’s the one who’d orgasmed. ( _You may not be able to come on my knot alone_ yet, _but I’m sure we could get you there,_ he remembers with egregious clarity.) It’s not fair that it shouldn’t get old, that the same thing overwhelms him just as much each time, that he’s already growing familiar with this particular line of resentment. He wishes before he manages to stop himself that he _did_ have the kind of toy Peter’d talked about, just to give up and keep it in his cunt all the time so he wouldn’t have to _deal_ with this, presuming if he fucked himself full almost to the edge of what he can tolerate maybe he’d be able to get anything else done. At the moment Jon can’t muster a higher aspiration than that. 

“That’s a while in your future yet,” Peter says, straightening up, once he’s got his breath back. He sounds repulsively fond; Jon supposes the thinking about all the ways he gets to hurt him must have helped. “Plenty of other things to be concerned about first. Case in point,” he says, ”you should be starting to feel some better?”

It’s an absolutely absurd question on the face of it. Jon would really rather prefer being able to open his mouth and say that. As it is, he shifts his face to be braced on one forearm only, and feels at his own belly with the other. There’s the slightest curve, one he could almost chalk up to the arch of his back if it weren’t for that Jon thinks can tell he can’t feel the obscene press of Peter’s cock as clearly despite that he’s at least as deep as he was before, and the touch of his own hand makes Jon sigh. He can't _really_ tell what's heat-crazed fantasy and what's relentless biological reality in terms of proportion, but he's so warm and full he could cry with relief if he cared to abandon the dignity. Keeps hold of it by his mental fingernails only with the slightest press of knowledge of how temporary this feeling is, if anything. 

(Jon can’t actually feel gravity and being relentlessly fucked open conspiring to let Peter fill him to the womb more easily—that’s ridiculous—but the illusion of it is the form that his arousal takes nonetheless. As if he could feel his cervix relaxing against Peter’s dick along with the rest of him, welcoming all the come he’s kept, managed to keep, inside even deeper, past the point where he can feel it, all but guaranteed to take. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to feel horrified at the ache of his own want for it, the way his mind semiconsciously luxuriates over the things Peter had said, either.) 

He _wants_ to feel only disgust, repulsion, some ordinary kind of jittering desperate personal fear, even the bare minimum of awareness he’s stuck in a deeply uncomfortable position would do for a start; but his whole body is pliant and buzzing with sensation. Peter feels so effortlessly _good_ inside him, and Jon’s starting to get the vaguest sense that it’s actually possible for this thing his body’s turned into to be sated. To be full _enough_ , for longer than an interstitial moment, even knowing he’s nowhere near there yet. It’s honestly a novel sensation at this point, with the year he’s been having. “I-I am,” he says, grudgingly still, once he’s finally exhausted managing not to. 

“There we go,” Peter says approvingly; Jon thinks he might be nodding. “Does it bother you any, you know, not having any basis for comparison?”

“Comparison of what.” 

“Well, this being your first heat and all that, and with how long it’ll be until your second… Seems to me you’d be positively itching for a different experience by then, right? So from a certain perspective we both win!”

It seems obvious by the time Jon’s speaking, enough that he somehow manages—despite all odds and his current position—to be embarrassed by the fact that he’s said, “You’re… already planning to leave me alone for it?” So he can hardly begrudge Peter not dignifying it with an answer.

Mostly because he’s full up on things to begrudge him already, with the looming prospect of really, truly thinking his new predicament through promising to make him lightheaded as soon as Jon’s got his wits about him to process it with—

Jon takes a moment trying at following up on the actual conversation at hand, imagining the worst of the need and the deprived panic being all of it. Thinks through, not for the first time, what he remembers of learning being mated does to a person. His blood runs cold. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Peter says—confident, smug—and he thumbs at the thoroughly scarred nape of Jon’s neck, over Jon’s high and broken protests, as if to drive home that he must be lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all's comments, as usual, kept me going throughout this; I have been absolutely _living_. Even if I'm going to end up paying the price in eventually writing a four-months-later threesome, at this rate. Thank you, and thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> “peter, acquiring a second eyemega: damn it” —grossferatu’s summary
> 
> So this is one way to finally take my thing for Lonely//Beholding syncretism to the next level, I... guess
> 
> Anyway! _Speaking_ of beholding, I'm slow and sometimes awkward as far as replies go but observing people's reactions is what drives me to write above all else; please do comment, you'll keep me going for days.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [interstitial](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28994643) by [Alias (anafabula)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anafabula/pseuds/Alias)




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